Of Angels and Inebriation
by Celesma
Summary: In which Castiel gets drunk off his ass and makes a confession Dean's not prepared to hear. A fluffy Destiel ficlet.


A/N: I can't really remember if Castiel ever gets drunk on the show, or if he's even actually capable of getting drunk – so if not, just mark this up as an AU. (Also, one of the jokes is blatantly ripped off from Animorphs. I'm a big fan of that series.) I would place this around S05 or so.

Also, sorry about the lame title; I honestly didn't know what to name this. I might change it once I think of something better.

* * *

**Of Angels and Inebriation**

As soon as Dean walks through Bobby's front door, he can tell Castiel's been drinking.

And it's not the "tipsy" kind of drinking either. Nope, nothing in Dean's life is ever that simple: the guy is _shitfaced_, dancing to music that apparently only he can hear (and _badly_), stripped down to nothing but a wife-beater and a pair of boxer shorts, grinning so broadly Dean's sure the guy bit into a piano at some point during his tenure as Jimmy Novak.

_At least he's a **happy** drunk_, he has time to reflect, before he is unwittingly sucked into the angel's newly minted realm of insanity, like a planet that can't quite exceed escape velocity. Now humming tunelessly, Castiel picks up a plate and attempts to toss it like a frisbee, and Dean finds himself ducking for cover as it comes flying at him like a projectile missile, before hitting the door frame and shattering into pieces.

"Okay, Cas – _spill_," Dean orders, shouldering off his jacket and glaring at the angel. "What did you get your hands on, and it better not have been that good whiskey I picked up last week."

Castiel turns his face-splitting grin on him, and Dean recoils slightly. _Good thing Sammy's not here_, he thinks. _He'd probably pee his pants in terror. Cas looks just like a goddamn **clown**, minus the makeup._ "Oh! Dean! _There_ you are," Castiel slurs, as if he hadn't nearly succeeded in decapitating the hunter mere seconds ago. "I have been having the most _wonderful_ time." He drags the word "wonderful" out, so that it has like eight or nine syllables in it.

"Yeah? So wonderful that you decided to get trashed?"

"It was wonderful precisely because of the _discovery_ that I made," Castiel says, either unable or unwilling to address Dean in a non-imbecilic fashion. "Or rather, it is something that I have known about all along, but which now seems to me to be so – fantastic!"

"You're talking about alcohol, right?" Dean says wearily.

"No – I'm talking about my _mouth_."

Dean stares. "Your what."

"When I was an angel I didn't have a mouth," Castiel explains, speaking with the earnestness of a prophet sowing God's truth among the ignorant. "Did you know that? And yet it is something that all of you humans take far too much for granted. I think mouths are wonderful things. You can use them to eat, and to say words. For example – cinammon buns. _Bunzuh_. Isn't that fun to say? And they're so delicious, too!"

Dean transfers his stunned gaze to Bobby, who is currently trying to thread his way past the sofa and into the study without being noticed. "Jesus, Bobby. Did you give him absinthe or something?"

Bobby holds up his hands in exasperated defense. "Don't look at me! He was already stomping around like Jack friggin' Torrance when I woke up. Maybe you should learn to stow your whiskey bottles properly, 'stead of leaving 'em everywhere like a damn slob." He goes on into the study, murmurs of _"idjit"_ trailing behind him.

Muttering serial curses of his own, Dean sits down on the worn-out couch and pats the seat next to him. Castiel cheerily obliges and faces him, his expression melting into one of pleasant vacuousness.

"Castiel," he says, hoping the use of the angel's full name will turn him on to the fact that this is Serious Business. "Did you drink my good whiskey?"

"Yeee~eeees."

"How much did you drink?"

"I drank _aaall_ of it." Castiel's voice drops to an irritatingly sing-song tenor. Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, asking a God he doesn't all that much believe in for the strength to resist cracking open his jaw. _Fuck, I had to hustle a lot of pool to pay for all those bottles..._

"Well it's a good thing you're an angel then, 'cause otherwise you'd be dead," he says finally, trying to make light of the situation. "Because if the alcohol poisoning didn't kill you, _I_ would have."

To his immense surprise, Castiel laughs as if he's heard the funniest joke in his life. "Oh you are _funny_, Dean," he guffaws, slapping his knees – he is honest-to-God _slapping his knees_, what the actual fuck. Dean briefly wonders if he's been transported to some zany alternate universe courtesy of the Trickster. Then all thoughts (sarcastic, despondent, and otherwise) are driven out of his head as Castiel leans forward with an-almost sultry intent, batting his eyes like some kind of fancy lady.

"You can also use mouths to kiss, Dean. That is something else I like. In fact, I need someone to practice my first kiss on..."

And then a gale of whiskey breath hits him with the force of the Titanic or whatever hitting the iceberg (because metaphors are no longer Dean Winchester's strong suit when he's about to be _kissed by another dude_), and Cas's lips are zeroing in on his own, only he's still falling-down drunk so he gets Dean's ear instead.

"Okay, this is too – " Dean backs away so suddenly that Castiel almost falls off the couch. The angel issues a high-pitched giggle as he attempts to right himself. "Cas, you are being fucking _weird_, man. I mean – weirder than you normally are."

"How am I being weird? I have always wanted to kiss you, Dean."

For a moment Dean gapes at him openly. Then, glancing around furtively, he leans in towards Castiel and utters in a strained whisper: "You want to kiss me? You do know what kissing _means_, right?"

"To kiss someone means that you like them." Cas says it like he's explaining to a three-year-old, before erupting into a series of semi-explosive hiccups. "And – _hic!_ – I like you very – _hic!_ – much, Dean."

"No, I _get_ that – I get that you like me, but – " Dean somehow manages to drop his voice to near-inaudible levels. "You don't_ like_ me, like me. I mean, maybe you do want to kiss me – as incredibly fucking strange as that would be – but you don't want to do all the stuff that comes_ after_ kissing, like – " He can't even continue, he's so flustered.

"Oh no, Dean. I _do_ want to do those things with you. I want to do those things very much."

Dean's ready to make another sarcastic/confounded/utterly horrified comment (maybe something along the lines of _so you'll bang just about anything when you're wasted? Good to know!_), when the angel's blue eyes – considerably softened under the dulling effects of alcohol – turn up to look into his own. Dean's words die in his throat. The soft shade of those eyes reveals a certain measure of vulnerability that sober-Cas (or soldier-of-the-Lord-Cas, or perpetual-stick-up-his-ass-Cas) would never deign to show him. Dean finds himself captured by them, without knowing it.

"I know you are stubborn and you won't believe me. But any humanity I have in me is because of _you_, Dean. And – and there are – " He stumbles over his words, but not so much from intoxication now. Trying again, he says: "All of the things I like best seem to be bound up in you. The way you smell like shaving cream in the morning, or the color of your eyes, or the feeling of your hands – so calloused and roughened by the world, but still so soft. It's only knowing that I have those things that makes me so happy to be a human. And did you know, no one ever called me _Cas_ until you started doing it."

Dean remains speechless, paralyzed. If what the angel's telling him is _true_, if there really _were_ hidden depths that he had no inkling of... "Cas," he murmurs softly, with no clue in the world at all of what he's going to say next.

But then this precious, gemlike moment of clarity is shunted aside, as Castiel suddenly turns away and lets out a terrific belch.

"Nice one, boy," Bobby calls from somewhere in the study. Castiel is laughing again, shoulders shaking with hyena-like mirth, his confession apparently forgotten. Dean blinks, finding that his paralysis is broken: like a mirror being smashed on the concrete. The hunter slowly raises a hand, places it palm-first to his forehead.

"Today's hour of sharing and caring, brought to you by Homer Simpson," he sighs, a cocktail of relief and disappointment sweeping over him. Castiel, for his part, continues to giggle at perhaps the most juvenile achievement of his millenniums-long life.

"That was _so_ loud, Dean. Did you hear it? It was _so_ – "

"Yes, Cas, I heard it. Kindly stop reminding me." He smiles then, shaking his head, eyeing Castiel with an expression of combined wariness and affection. "Now how much of this do you think you're gonna remember in the morning?"

"Probably – _heh, heh_ – nothing."

"Guess it can't hurt to reward a guy for trying, then."

He leans forward, plants a kiss on the angel's cheek. He's not gay, _that's_ for damn sure, so there's nothing intense or needful about the kiss, but he's uncharacteristically tender about it, and holds his lips to Cas's cheek for a bit longer than necessary. At first Castiel is still and silent, but then he giggles and grabs the collar of Dean's shirt, pulling him closer, inviting him to do more.

Dean pulls away, of course... but it's not the easiest thing in the world.

"Nope, that's all you get. Don't forget that Jimmy's still in there. Jimmy's a good Christian with a wife and kid. I don't think he'd be cool with you using his body to mack on another dude. _Capiche_?"

"Ca-pee..." The angel struggles with the unfamiliar word. "Cat pee?"

"No, Cas – _capiche_. It's Italian for 'let's not mention that we did this shit ever again.'"

"That is oddly pacific. Specific. Sah-puh-siff – "

"Okay, time to sleep it off." Dean gets Castiel to turn over and nestle into the sofa cushions, promptly draws his jacket – a covering he's found to be more comfortable than any blanket – over his restless form. Castiel looks up at him, still with that expression of drunken adoration, and Dean feels something in his stomach sort of flip over. It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

"You sound just like my lover – mother," the angel croaks.

"Hey. Remember what I said? _Capiche_. Now shut up and close your eyes."

"Good night, Deeeaaaan."

"It's still daytime, you ass," Dean huffs, but at least Castiel's following instructions. Within minutes the obnoxious display of insobriety is replaced by an obnoxious display of snoring. Sighing once more (and glancing around the room to make sure Bobby's still in the study), Dean kneels down and kisses Castiel's other cheek.

"Good night to you too, Cas," he says, and he lets his hand linger there, wondering what it is Castiel likes so much about his hands, and if angels get hangovers, before going to the fridge to get himself a well-deserved beer.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
